Quick lightning chases,
eyes follow the fragile leaf,
the poor frail creature.

Shadow embraces,
the girl steps like spring, dancing
while the embers catch.

To which
the siren
replied,

You may
call me
cynical,

but
I
have
survived.

Stars and sins are swimming
all through my head;

Pain is shooting through my streets
and blurring my maps;

The taste of some sweet poison
may well be flowing
in the underground,
these veins of gold.

Surely,
even an underwater explosion
must be reflected
on the my pale ocean's surface.

I wrote you a poem.

I would write
a poem, a story,
a chapter, a book,
a whole **** library,
a universe
if I knew how.

Forget the poem,
unless it would make you smile
for a moment,
knowing I
(foolish girl)
cared enough
to write it.

Except,
I don't know how
to escape from
my helpless
skin

or to force my way
out of that
awful box

And

I am being selfish, again,

because I don't really know anything.

Everyone keeps
a special smile
hidden under their mattress
or next to the night-stand,
reserved specially for
the special ones.

However,
according to scientists or
romantic comedy writers
or whoever knows
anything about these things,

the problem arises because
everyone wants the one person
who can't be had;

So we all die a little every day
and everyone thinks
secretly
that maybe they
are really going crazy,
this time,

And the voices
in their heads
just
might
be right,

And what if
there is no special smile,
reserved specially for us?